


lay down on the cold ground

by gotatheory



Series: Home [2]
Category: The Hunger Games
Genre: Gen, non-graphic depictions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotatheory/pseuds/gotatheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "here's to drinks in the dark." Effie Trinket is not a rebel, but the Capitol doesn’t care. Or: how Effie Trinket lost herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lay down on the cold ground

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [here's to drinks in the dark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3319607).

**lay down on the cold ground**

She is watching the screen in the apartment, dutifully paying every bit of attention to Peeta and Katniss, hoping they can somehow manage another double victory. Haymitch was gone, in sponsor meetings all day, he said, and Effie might have thought that was odd if it had been any Tributes but Katniss and Peeta.

When the explosion happens, she gasps. The screen fizzles as all the cameras shut down, and Effie reaches for the phone to call Haymitch, before remembering he’s not in the building. She calls the Game Center, hoping they can redirect her, but the moment she introduces herself, the line cuts off.

Her first thought is _how rude_ , but it’s followed by creeping terror. Something is wrong, the Games have never blacked out, and now she has no idea if Peeta and Katniss were all right. She can’t just sit there, she decides, gathering her purse and heading for the door.

It’s locked, and the terror creeps closer to the forefront of her mind.

“Well!” she exclaims, because she thinks she might scream otherwise. Everything is going wrong and nothing bothers Effie Trinket more than things not going the way they are supposed to. She goes back over to the phone to page one of the other escorts or someone in the building, because she can’t be the only one having this problem (right?), but there is nothing but silence on the other end.

She realizes that something is going on that she does not know about. The Capitol would never interrupt its own entertainment, which only leaves one other possibility, and Effie thinks of Finnick Odair sold every night to the highest bidder, and of Haymitch’s family dead after he won the second Quarter Quell, and she trembles.

She screams when the door slams open behind her, before it cutting off because screaming is not ladylike at all. She turns around to look at the Peacekeepers, batons out and charged with electricity.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so glad you’re here!” she says, trying to calm down. “There’s something wrong with the screen and the phone wasn’t working—”

“Effie Trinket, you are under arrest for suspected treason against the Capitol,” one of them interrupts.

For a second, Effie’s mouth hangs open in a most unladylike manner, and she cannot find it in her to care. “What?” she barely breathes. The pieces slowly click into place; the way everyone from Plutarch to Haymitch to the other Victors have been so secretive. They are responsible for whatever has happened in the Arena.

Two Peacekeepers step forward and grab her arms, while the first one tells her, “You are to come with us immediately. We are permitted to use any force necessary if you struggle.”

Effie Trinket has only ever struggled with getting Haymitch and her Tributes to follow her schedules. If she were the sort of person who would scoff at something, she would be doing it. Instead she simply shakes her head, even as the Peacekeepers pull her along.

“No, there must be some mistake!” she says, and when they do not listen, her hysteria builds. “Please, let me speak to Plutarch or someone, I’m sure we can sort this all out!” She begs and begs, but does not struggle, because she thinks everything will be all right as soon as she can speak to someone in charge.

*

She is taken to a holding cell, and she is crying, quiet little tears, because she is so very afraid. She has been a model citizen her entire life, because she knows what happens when someone is not. So she does the job she thought she always wanted and picks kids’ names out of glass bowls to be killed for her entertainment. She has never, ever expressed discontent, except in the moments when the latest twelve year old she picked has been murdered, and her body is tangled with Haymitch’s and her thoughts are tangled with alcohol.

She is crying, because she has been left behind. There was never any love lost between her and Haymitch, not even when they would sleep together, but to be abandoned like this when Haymitch knows what the Capitol does to traitors hurts in a way Effie has never felt before.

Effie smells roses before he enters, and then President Snow himself is sitting across from her with a congenial smile.

“Miss Trinket,” he says, as if he is her kindly old uncle.

“Mr. President!” she squeaks, because she has only met him a handful of times, and even though she is afraid, the only thing she can think of is that she must look a mess in front of the president. She tries to sit a little straighter, but the handcuffs encircling her wrists don’t allow her much movement.

“I apologize for what I am sure is a most startling turn of events for you.” He does not sound apologetic. “Has anyone explained what has happened at the Arena to you?”

She shakes her head, stammering a little as she tells him no.

“I see.” He leans forward, and Effie’s nose wrinkles at the coppery scent of blood underlying the smell of roses. The genial uncle is gone now, replaced with something threatening and sharp. “It seems that there were some traitors in our midst, Miss Trinket, including your three Victors.”

“T-traitors?” Effie repeats, dumbstruck. She has begun to figure out what is going on, but hearing it startles her.

“Yes, your three Victors, as well as Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee,” says Snow, nodding, and leaning back a little. “Seeing as how they made such a public getaway, we can only assume that this is some sort of rebellion against the Capitol.”

Effie does not know what to say to that.

Snow sighs, and Effie thinks he’s a little annoyed. The thought sends another shiver of terror through her. “Am I to understand that you had no idea what Haymitch Abernathy and his associates were planning?” he asks, and she can tell he has already made his decision.

“Of course not, Mr. President!” she says as insistently as she can manage. _If I was a part of it, do you think I would be here?_ she wants to scream, wants to shout at him that Haymitch Abernathy apparently trusted her as far as he could throw her, because he left her behind and he didn’t even warn her. “If I had known any such thing, I would have reported it immediately, sir!”

She wants to go home and sleep and forget all about the Games or being the escort for District 12. She wants to pretend she never met Haymitch Abernathy or that she never drew Primrose Everdeen’s name.

“I see.” Snow stares at her for a long minute, and she fights the urge to fidget. “Miss Trinket, if you know anything at all, it is in your best interest to tell me now.”

She bursts into tears, because she cannot stand it anymore. “Please, sir,” she sobs, “I don’t know anything. I promise. Haymitch and I were colleagues; he didn’t trust me with anything. I only tried to do my job as best I could, sir, please… You have to believe me, sir…”

“Of course,” Snow says with a kind smile. “Of course, I want to believe you, Miss Trinket. But in a time like this, you can never know who your enemies are.”

Effie’s tears almost stop on command, shock running through her at the implied threat. The president walks out of the room, letting the Peacekeepers come back in. “Take her to a cell,” he says coldly. “We’ll see if she’s telling the truth or not.”

She screams when they touch her and haul her out of the chair. She screams for Snow to come back, that there has been a mistake, that she is a Capitol citizen and she cannot be treated this way.

Effie Trinket has never struggled against anything in her life, but as the Peacekeepers carry her down a dark hallway, she tries her best to struggle out of their grip, crying for someone to help her.

*

After that first day, she couldn’t keep track of her days and nights. She might have been in that cell for one month or one week, and she honestly couldn’t tell anyone who asked her. After the peaceful interrogation with President Snow, she didn’t see him again.

She saw Peacekeepers plenty of times, though. It started off slowly, she supposes. They would come in, usually two or three, and they would have batons on their waists.

“Hello, Miss Trinket,” they would say almost pleasantly. Then they would ask her a question, like _Where is Katniss Everdeen?_ or _Did you know about the plot to rebel against the Capitol?_

Effie would always answer _no_. Then one would hit her, usually a quick slap to the face that left her cheek stinging. The first time it happened, she screamed, because she had never been hit before. She hadn’t felt a pain like it before.

Then they would ask their questions again, and Effie would always tell them she didn’t know anything. They would hit her, again and again, hands and fists that left her crying. When she would beg them to stop, they would pull out their batons instead.

When they were finished, they would leave her in a heap on the floor.

*

“If you want this to stop, Miss Trinket, all you have to do is tell us where the rebels are hiding,” a Peacekeeper tells her, voice low, like he’s telling her a secret.

She is a shaking, shivering mess in a tub with a thin line of water. She cannot find any tears to cry, so her sobs are dry and harsh. Every nerve feels like it is on fire, and she would curse Cinna for ever coming up with “The Girl on Fire” if she had not been forced to watch his murder.

“Please,” she manages to whisper hoarsely, even though begging has never made them stop before.

She screams as another shock rips through her. When it stops, she can’t think, she can’t see anything except bright splotches of colored light, and she knows they must be asking her more questions, but she can’t hear them.

She braces for another shock, but it doesn’t come. Her hearing comes back first, but everything sounds distant, far removed from her. Someone says, “We have a live one here,” and she wonders if that is a really bad joke.

Effie feels herself being lifted out of the tub, and she whimpers because everything hurts. Whoever is carrying her whispers something that sounds like comforting words, but Effie can only wonder what torture is about to be inflicted on her. They have never staged a fake rescue before, and she doesn’t want to imagine how it ends. Maybe they think it will break her completely, her dreams of rescue finally coming true only to have them crushed at the last second, but Effie stopped hoping she would be rescued long ago.

She doesn’t know where she is taken. Her eyes are still not functioning properly, no matter how many times she tries blinking away the splotches of color or the blurriness. But someone around her gasps, “Oh my – I think this is Effie Trinket!”

Effie whimpers, because of the contradictory impulse of wanting to confirm her identity and wanting no one to recognize her. She is a mess, stripped of her colorful makeup, wig, and dress. She doesn’t even feel like herself anymore.

“Someone get Haymitch!” the person orders, and Effie moans again. He is the last person she wants to see her like this. “Shh, Miss Trinket, it’s okay. You’re okay now.”

She feels something prick her skin, and then she can’t remember anything at all.

*

When she wakes up, her mouth is dry, but the constant fire in her body has calmed to a distant burn. Her mind feels disconnected and when she moves her head, it takes a minute for her brain to actually process what she is seeing. Haymitch Abernathy is sitting in a chair at her bedside, looking at her.

“Hello, darlin’,” he says softly.

She stares at him, takes in his disheveled appearance, and she thinks he looks impossibly worse than the last time she saw him. His skin is sallow, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands are shaking in his lap.

She swallows, wincing at the sandpaper that has become her throat. “Water?” she manages to whisper.

“You can’t have water,” says Haymitch, but he gets up and comes closer, reaching for a cup on the table next to her bed. “But you can have ice chips.”

In what is probably the most tender thing Haymitch Abernathy has ever done for her, he spoon-feeds her some ice, and the cool relief that washes over her almost makes up for the completely awful way she feels.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, remembering her manners. “How long...?”

“Have you been asleep? About two weeks on and off,” he says offhandedly. “You’ve been in and out of surgeries. Your last one was yesterday, and they think they’ve repaired all the damage they could.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Be more specific, sweetheart.”

She feels a surge of anger at his teasing. It’s typical Haymitch, being rude when she hasn’t done a thing to him, but she wishes she was strong enough to throw something at him. She wishes she could make him feel every moment of what she felt in that cell, so he would know how much pain she was in and how awful he was for abandoning her.

“Why… did they… save me?” she says instead, speaking slowly because her lungs feel weak and her chest hurts every time she breathes.

“We took the Capitol,” he replies, as if that explains everything. She stares at him, trying to prompt him to tell her more. “You were being held in the President’s mansion. I guess he moved you after we got Johanna and Peeta back.’”

“I suppose I… should feel honored.” She would snort, because she is beginning to not care about manners, but the thought of using so much energy makes her bones ache.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Haymitch says, but he doesn’t laugh either.

“They shouldn’t have bothered,” she mutters.

“What?”

“They should have left me there.” Her mouth begins to dry out, and she looks toward the bedside table.

“Effie,” Haymitch begins, sighing.

She interrupts him, “Ice, please.”

He feeds her more ice chips, speaking as he does so, “Effie, don’t be stupid. You’re alive, which is a lot more than I can say for some others.”

She pulls away from the spoon, and says in the bitterest voice she can manage, “You left me.”

“Here it comes.” She can’t quite see it, but she thinks he rolls his eyes. “Go ahead and say whatever you want to say.”

“You left me,” she repeats, because he must not have understood her the first time.

“You’ve already said that,” he replies. “Guess they didn’t fix the brain damage as much as they thought.”

“Damn it, Haymitch!” she exclaims without thinking. She has never cursed, except on the rare occasion when she was drunk, but she thinks she is going to cry. She can feel the tears welling in her eyes, and it hurts, and she doesn’t have the energy for this. “You left me there, without even a warning of what was going to happen! You lied to me that morning and said you were going to be wooing sponsors all day, when really you were plotting a rebellion, and you didn’t even think that I might end up in danger because of it.”

“Sorry, but I was more focused on getting those tributes out of that hellhole! And I still didn’t manage to get them all out!” he shouts at her. “You were not that important, Effie!”

She can’t help it. She sobs, gasping because it hurts so much; not just the physical pain but hearing him say that, confirming she doesn’t matter at all to him, to any of them.

“Oh, shit,” Haymitch groans. “Really, Effie? You’re really doing this right now?”

“Could you please leave?” she manages to say through hiccupping sobs.

“Effie, stop it. We tried to find you, but it wasn’t that easy, and we couldn’t spend all of our time trying to get you out. There were more important things going on here,” he says, as if that is supposed to fix everything. She supposes that is as much of an apology as she is going to get from him.

“Why didn’t you warn me about what was going to happen? I could have at least not sat in that penthouse, watching so I could let you know the moment something happened to Katniss and Peeta!”

He shifts a bit, and she sees the first real shadow of guilt pass over his face. “I thought we’d make it back for you before the Peacekeepers could get to you,” he says softly. “But I didn’t want you to know anything, just in case we didn’t. I tried to get back to the Capitol for you and get you out of there, but there was only so much that I could do, what with President Coin running the show. She didn’t care much about a Capitol citizen that drew kids’ names to be slaughtered.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, letting his words wash over her. They don’t make her feel better, not really, but it soothes her to know he hadn’t completely forgotten about her. But he still could have warned her, or told her something so she could have tried to get out on her own.

“Please, Haymitch, I would like to be alone. I am so very tired right now,” she says, voice insistent even though she is falling apart.

Haymitch stares at her for a long moment, before sighing. “All right, fine,” he says, and leaves without another word.

*

Effie doesn’t see him for a few days after that exchange, during which she gets to relearn how to walk and feed herself. Her nerves might be fixed, but they don’t quite seem to know how to work. Her hand-eye coordination is atrocious, and her legs refuse to bear her weight like they used to. She almost falls on her face several times, only to be caught by whichever poor nurse has to help her that day.

One day, she simply decides to give up, collapsing to the floor in a heap and refusing to move, no matter how many nurses try to help her up.

She doesn’t know who called him, but she recognizes his heavy footfalls and when he stands in front of her, she can see the tops of his boots.

“Woman, you just live to cause trouble for me, don’t you?” he says down at her.

She can hear it; the tone he used all the time when he was trying to get a rise out of her. Old Effie would have snapped something at him, or maybe stormed off in a huff, depending on the day. But this Effie whose legs can’t remember how to storm off sits there, staring down at a body she doesn’t know anymore.

“I told you that you shouldn’t have saved me,” she mutters, and she refuses to acknowledge the tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She thinks she has cried enough for a lifetime, but this new body disagrees and cries about everything now.

“And we’re back to that,” Haymitch sighs.

“Just go away, Haymitch,” she tells him. “I know you have more important things to do than fake concern for me.”

She is surprised and a little annoyed when he sits down next to her with a groan. “Actually, I’m less important now that I’m not making plans for the rebellion,” he says. “So I have nothing more important to do than faking concern for you.”

There’s that tone again and something stirs inside of her, but she shakes her head. “Then go away because I don’t want to see you.”

“You know I was never good at following instructions, so I guess you’re gonna have to make me move or just sit here with me, sweetheart.”

“I am not in the mood for your adolescent taunting, so please leave,” she says, finally raising her head to look at him. He looks horrible; his skin is yellowed and his eyes bloodshot. She realizes he doesn’t smell like alcohol for a change.

He smiles at her. “Well, what do you know?” he chuckles. “For a minute there, you actually sounded like the Effie Trinket I know.”

Effie scowls at him, and if she had any strength and coordination, she would probably slap him. Instead, she says, “The Effie Trinket you know doesn’t exist anymore.” She holds up her hands, looking at her jagged, unadorned nails, and then gestures to her body. She has finally been allowed actual clothes instead of a hospital gown, but the shirt and pants are a dull grey and entirely too big for her small frame. She has not been allowed any wigs or makeup, even though she has learned her residence at the Capitol was untouched by the bombing.

“Does this look like the Effie Trinket you know?” she adds. She hates herself. She hates what she has been turned into, all because of this man.

“Well, you’re close enough that you are going to have to do,” he replies flippantly. “There’s no one else around who can fill Effie’s shoes, so you’ll have to step up to the plate. Besides, someone is going to have to get Katniss ready for Snow’s execution, and that means you.”

“You can get her ready for it,” she says, looking away from him again. “She always liked you more than me anyway.”

“No, no, no.” He actually waggles his finger in her face, and there is a primal part of her, brought out by the torture, that wants to bite it off. “My job was getting her ready for the Arena. You’re the one who’s supposed to prepare her for everything else. So get up and do your damn job.”

“It is not my job anymore,” she points out, crossing her arms under her breasts, and then she gasps.

Effie Trinket has been an escort for eleven years. It was the job she knew she always wanted, even when she was a little girl going to charm school. Her entire adult identity was wrapped up in it, and even though she grew to despise it, she no longer has it. She has truly lost herself.

“Oh, no,” Haymitch groans. He can’t read her mind, but he can read her face easily enough, and he knows when she is about to cry. “Please, Effie, don’t cry, I don’t think I can take it… I haven’t had booze in forever, not since that damned Coin woman found out that I had taken some from the Capitol… Please, don’t do this to me right now.”

She stares at him blankly, barely hearing his words. “I don’t have a job anymore, Haymitch,” she says instead, her voice trembling.

“Wait, is that what that look’s about? In that case, you better not cry. I just told you what your job is, Effie,” he says, “and I meant it. Your job is to get Katniss ready, just like it always was.”

“No, no it’s not,” she says, shaking her head, and her entire body shakes. “My job was to prepare Tributes for the Games, but there are no more Tributes and no more Games and no more escorts…”

She is beginning to ramble, and Haymitch rolls his eyes. “Shut up and listen to me closely, Effie, because I am only going to say this one more time,” he says, and that seems to snap her out of her trance. “Are you listening?”

She nods once.

“You are still Katniss and Peeta’s escort, okay? Your job is to get them ready for whatever the hell event Coin decides to do, the same as it ever was. And if you do not get your cute little ass up and learn how to walk again, you will not be able to do your job, and then District Thirteen just might decide you are useless, and I have spent too much of my time convincing them otherwise. So _get up_ and get ready to face Katniss, damn it.”

Effie stares at him, and she thinks her mouth might be hanging open. Realizing that it is, she closes it quickly, and finally finds her voice. “All right,” she says so softly Haymitch blinks at her. So she raises her voice, “All right. When do I need to be ready?”

Haymitch actually smiles as he stands, groaning as he pushes to his feet. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs as he helps her up. He shoos the nurse away when she rushes to attend to Effie, saying, “I got her.”

“Well, haven’t the tables turned?” Effie laughs, struck by the situation. “I’m usually the one helping _you_ up and saying that. I suppose everything changes eventually.”

She looks at Haymitch, holding onto his arm with both hands as he leads them out of the therapy room. “Even you,” she mutters.

*

The day she is scheduled to see Katniss for the first time, she is still not well enough for a proper room. Instead, she has a little private place away from the other patients, a folding wall blocking her from view. Her skin has healed enough that the scars are almost invisible, except to the touch. She can walk for short distances unaccompanied, but otherwise she carries a cane.

Haymitch visits her, coming into the room without so much as a knock, carrying several boxes. She has just finished getting dressed, ahead of schedule as always, and she sits on her bed.

“What are those?” asks Effie.

“Open ‘em and see,” says Haymitch, placing them next to her. He has actually shaved and showered, much to Effie’s surprise.

Cautiously, she pries the top off of a round box, and then she promptly drops the top in surprise. She cannot stop the gasp that escapes her throat or the tears that spring to her eyes as she lifts a golden wig out of the white cardboard.

“Haymitch!” she exclaims, unable to think of anything else to say. She stares at it for several long moments, and she doesn’t care that she is crying. “Oh, Haymitch, where did you find it?”

“I didn’t,” he admits, looking down, and if Effie didn’t know him better, she would think he was acting sheepish. “I sent Octavia and the rest to your apartment. I thought you might want something that was yours for today.”

She puts the wig down long enough to stand, pulling him into a surprisingly tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then she’s back at the bed, opening the rest of the boxes, revealing a couple of outfits, shoes, and her makeup.

When she’s finished, she quickly wipes away her tears, and says, “Look at the time! I must get ready!” She pulls out a golden dress that matches her wig and hurries into her bathroom.

“Please, wait just a moment, Haymitch!” she calls.

Haymitch pauses as he was leaving, before shrugging and sitting down on the bed. “All right,” he acknowledges.

She comes out, carrying the clothes she had been wearing (now neatly folded, of course), and the dress is practically hanging off her small frame. She turns her back on Haymitch, revealing that the dress is open, a set of laces hanging loosely down by her sides.

“Can you lace me up, please?” she asks demurely.

Haymitch stares for a moment, as if he has never seen the naked back of Effie Trinket before, when he has. The Capitol went through a backless clothes trend a few years ago, inspired by the horrible, graphic flailing of one of the children in the Games. Not to mention that they have slept together.

“Haymitch?” Effie says, turning her head to look over his shoulder. “I have a schedule to keep.”

She sounds like her old self again, and that snaps him out of whatever trance he lost himself in. He grabs the laces and tugs gently, looping them through the holes. When he’s finished, he ties them in a surprisingly neat little bow at the base of her back.

“All done,” he tells her gruffly.

“Thank you,” she says, and does not comment on his tone. Then she is gone again, applying her makeup and her wig, and she returns looking like the Effie he knew months ago, before the rebellion. The only difference is her makeup is tasteful, subtle almost. She stands in front of him for a moment, and he realizes she is waiting for him to say something.

“Effie,” is all he manages. He hates her wearing Capitol fashions for many reasons, but just this once, he’s glad to see her looking like how he remembers.

She smiles, and reaches for the simple gold flats the stylists had provided her with. She wonders briefly where they got them, because all of her shoes have heels – she’s tiny in so many ways – but she appreciates that they thought of her comfort. Once she’s slipped them on, she says to Haymitch, “Well, I think I’m ready now. Walk with me?”

He lets her take his arm, supporting her weight, and grabs her cane for her. It looks plain next to her Capitol outfit, but she doesn’t say anything. He leads her to the stylists, who immediately swarm around her and coo over her appearance.

“This is where I get off, darlin’,” he whispers into her ear, and if he just happens to lean close enough that his lips brush her skin, it’s really just a coincidence.

“Thank you, Haymitch,” she murmurs back, squeezing his arm before letting go. “Well, everyone, we have a big, big, big day ahead! Where is our little Mockingjay?”

He walks away, leaving her in her element, but he pauses for just a moment. She has a smile plastered on her face as she chats with Venia, and he catches her eye for a second. Even dressed up in her old attire, something is different about her. His Effie is slowly resurfacing, but he’s sure she’ll never be the same.


End file.
